"Je suis l'heureuse gardeuse de l'ours."
"Yes, you are a bear, Georgie, and twice as sulky." But Georgie, paler than usual, dark rings round her eyes, would lie flaccidly in her lounge chair, the infant on her lap, and decline to be galvanized even into momentary life by her cousin's taunts or innuendoes. There she would sit for hours together, gazing into space, the silent victim of another's fault. Why did she not rebel? Why did she not insist on informing her husband at least of her cousin's lapse, of her ignoble stratagem? Probably because she was too conscientious. With some few people truth-telling is a sort of religion, a kind of Obi, a fetish; so it was with young Mrs. Haggard. She had promised, nay she had sworn. A voice, more awful than that of the Veiled Prophet, ever cried in her ear, "Thy oath, thy oath." Deception, so hateful to her truthful soul, she was compelled to carry on even against her trusting husband. Many a time and oft had she pleaded, with tears, to the remorseless girl who looked so soft and yielding. But the tender lines of Lucy's voluptuous figure covered a marble heart.
"Reginald would never betray you, darling," she had said. "He would do anything for my sake, for us and for this poor little thing." Here her eyes filled with tears as she kissed the unconscious infant in her arms.
"It's no use, Georgie, you've promised, and I shan't release you. You are a most interesting young mother. You look the part; there is a sort of matronly dignity about you, Georgie, that I could never hope to attain. Don't plague me," she continued. "As for telling Reginald or any soul alive, I'd die first; and mind you I mean it, it's no idle talk. If you ever should be so cruel as to tell my secret, our secret—if you should dare to tell it, even to hint it, Georgie"—and here the lovely eyes seemed to scintillate with suppressed fury—"you would bid good-bye to me, at all events in this world," and then she would go off into a half hysterical laugh.
At first scenes such as these were frequent, but Georgie gradually ceased to plead. She had reluctantly now accepted her position, and recognized her cousin's determination as immutable.
Lucy had read her uncle's letter aloud, eagerly breaking the seal; for her cousin had drifted into a state of listless apathy, a kind of dull indifference, from which even a letter from her much-loved father failed to rouse her. No look of interest, no answering smile lit up her once bright features as Lucy read the letter, interlarding it, as was her way, with a running fire of comment. When she came to the invitation to the Castle she could not restrain the exuberance of her delight, but clapped her hands in girlish glee.
"I see fresh triumphs, Georgie," she said, "with my prophetic eye. You will complete your subjugation of the old lord, and the philosophic Dr. Wolff will certainly propose to me. As for the heirs, they shall all sigh in chorus, from Lord Hetton to your father-in-law. But it is you who ought to be troubled by the suitors, patient Penelope that you are. I suppose uncle's letter must be taken as a royal mandate, and that we must leave here at once. I shan't be sorry to leave this place; there have been no sunny memories of foreign lands for us here, have there, Georgie?" she said, with some little show of affection, as she placed her hand upon her cousin's shoulder. But young Mrs. Haggard shrank from her touch with an almost imperceptible shudder.
Since Mr. Capt's mysterious departure from the Villa Lambert things had not gone on so pleasantly as under the reign of that invaluable domestic. Lucy Warrender at least had missed the thousand and one delicate attentions of the valet. The various little appetizing kickshaws that he was in the habit of concocting for the delectation of his young mistresses had disappeared. The living rooms and the table service no longer presented the attractive appearance they had done under his superintendence. But worst of all, Hephzibah Wallis distinctly sulked; no other word will express the condition of that love-lorn maid. Bereft of her admirer, her study of that depressing masterpiece, "The Dairyman's Daughter," became more intense; her very presence was a kind of blight as she silently performed her duties in her usual mechanical way. Never over strong, the loss of her lover was painfully apparent in Hephzibah's appearance: her muddy complexion became almost ghastly in its sallowness, and her pale lips grew almost colourless. That the girl was ill was very evident, but the fact did not seem to dawn upon Mrs. Haggard, whilst Lucy Warrender, who was in the habit of looking upon servants very much as pieces of furniture which could be replaced when worn out, troubled herself very little about the matter.
Miss Warrender, now the master-spirit of the establishment, did not hesitate. She answered her uncle's letter announcing their immediate departure for The Warren. As she playfully put it: "We must hurry home, uncle, or Miss Hood will devour you, body and bones; but we must travel by easy stages as Georgie seems not over strong, and we must be careful with baby. As for Hephzibah I have no patience with her; but people of her class are always helpless."
Two days afterwards they were on their way home. Travelling is not such a very fatiguing process after all. The ladies, the baby and the maid had a compartment of the sleeping car to themselves and journeyed comfortably enough. They arrived safely at their hotel in the Rue de la Paix, and then Hephzibah Wallis broke down. Tired as she was herself, Georgie Haggard nursed her like a sister; all night long she sat by the girl's bedside and watched the movements of the pale lips, which seemed to be eternally attempting to articulate, but though the lips moved ceaselessly no sound came from them. The maid's condition alarmed Mrs. Haggard; there was evidently something more than mere fatigue; great beads of perspiration stood on the forehead, the hands were cold as ice and seemed to pick irritably and aimlessly at the coverlid. Gradually the mutterings of the sick girl became louder.